Title: Freedom
Fandom: Shawshank Redemption
Pairing: Red/Andy
Rating: NC-17
Summary: This is my take on Red's trip south at the end of the movie and What Happened Next.
Archive: Yes to RareSlash archives and my site; anybody else please ask first.
Feedback: Would be lovely
Disclaimer: The guys don't belong to me; they belong to Stephen King, Frank Darabont, and the good people at Castle Rock and Columbia. I'm just borrowing, and I promise to put them back when I'm through. This is just for fun, not for profit. Supporting characters not from the movie are my own creation.
Warnings: Um, mush maybe? And there be older guys here, if that bothers you. Also, a SPOILER warning if you haven't seen the movie and don't want to know how it ends.

Notes: I finally saw the movie all the way through recently; it's an *excellent* picture. (Yes, I know, I am WAY behind the times.) When they stopped the movie there on the beach, the first thought that went through my head was, "well you can't stop there, not when it's just getting good!" So I set out to write the ending as it should've been. <g> Thanks to the lovely Squonk, who beta'd the first half of this story.

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I did it. I can't believe I actually did it. I've been on this bus and a half-dozen others like it for days. I've lost count, come to think of it. I hadn't realized it was such a long way from Maine to Texas. They look far enough apart on a map, of course, but maps just don't really give you any idea of how long it will take to cover all that land.

I still can't believe I'm doing this, an old crook like me.

I haven't been out of Shawshank all that long, six months maybe. Old Brooks Hatlen had the right of it. It's damn scary to be free. I don't remember how to do it anymore. It's like somebody's thrown me into a play without a script. I'm supposed to be playing the lead, but I've got no idea what's going on, and the other actors are no help at all. Sometimes, all I've been able to do is sit and think about things I could do so's they'd send me back. Back to where things make sense, back to where I know the rules, and I know my lines. Sounds odd, doesn't it? Take a man who's been in a cage for forty years, turn him loose, and the first place he wants to go is back to his cage. I remember stepping out of the prison gate that day. I looked at the whole wide world, no walls, no bars, expecting to feel... I don't know exactly what I was expecting to feel, but it wasn't fear. Turns out, all I could think was "Now what?". Then they shut the gate behind me with a clang and left me alone in all that emptiness. All I wanted to do was pound on that gate and holler at them to let me back in.

I didn't, though. The people of the State of Maine had been paying my upkeep for a good many years; I figured I owed it to them to try and earn that keep myself. I guess I went and grew a conscience after all. Besides, I'd made a promise to Andy, a promise that I would keep, come hell or high water.

I waited at the mouth of the long drive that leads to the prison for nigh on two hours, but a bus finally came. I climbed on and sat down and rode until the driver called the stop that had been scribbled onto the sheet of paper I held, the instructions to the half-way house the prison had set me up in. I was so glad to get off that bus; I never thought humanity would be able to travel so fast. My knuckles hurt from holding so tight to the seat in front of me. I paid my fare using the coins I'd been given before I left Shawshank, walked until I found the house, and was ushered into my room with a reminder from the landlady to report for work at the Food-Way grocery store the next morning. So there I was with a room and a job and not a damn clue what to do with any of it. I've never been so scared in all my life, not even when the judge told me I'd be spending the rest of my life in the slammer. I finally got the point where I was all ready to fulfill the promise I made to Andy, to go to that hayfield and find whatever it was he left for me, and then rob a store or a gas station so's they'd put me back where I belonged.

But then I read the letter he left in that little box buried under the rock. And the money. So *much* money. Made me smile, after I got over the shock. Warden Norton's ill-gotten gains were going to get me out of this country, if I could get up the gumption to go. Seemed my good friend Andy was waiting for me, way down there in Mexico.

I sat in that hayfield for a good long while, thinking. I couldn't stand to be free out there anymore, with no friends at all in this crazy world that I didn't understand. But *Andy* was my friend. Maybe he'd understand. Maybe he'd see that I was quaking in my cheap new shoes and make it better, somehow. (He'd never call attention to it, though. Andy was always like that; a real gentleman.) Needless to say, I latched onto that idea like a drowning man.

So I went back to my room, packed the few things I had to my name, and left my calling card right up next to old Brooks' scratchings. I asked directions of a young fellow on the street, and he told me how to get to the bus station. I'm still amazed that my voice didn't shake, didn't somehow give me away when I asked the young woman behind the desk for a ticket to Fort Hancock, Texas. I was certain that, as soon as the words left my mouth, the police and the guards and the warden would leap out from behind the fake, potted trees in the lobby and haul my ass back to Shawshank. They didn't, though. They didn't, and my voice stayed steady, and I got my ticket with a chipper "Thank you, sir" from the kid behind the desk, and now I'm riding through Oklahoma.

Unbelievable.

For much of the ride down through New England, I sat with a little old lady who just would not stop talking. She'd got on the bus with a carpet bag nearly as big as herself, so I offered to hold it for her. She chattered about anything and everything for miles and miles and miles, obviously happy to have a captive audience. Ordinarily, I probably would've found it aggravating, but she kept my mind off the important things, like the fact that I was actually *fleeing the country.* She eventually asked me where I was going. Still convinced that I'd be found out at any second, I didn't dare give any details. So I just told her I was going on a bit of an adventure.

Well, her eyes lit up like fireworks, and she wanted to know if I was keeping a diary of the trip. She must've realized from the expression on my face that the answer was no, so she tugged her monstrous bag into her lap and rummaged in it for several moments. She came up, triumphant at last, with a small blank book and a stubby pencil. She pressed them into my hands, telling me that if I was going on an adventure, I had to keep a journal. For all the times that I'm *not* adventuring and want to remember, she said. I could tell from the merry twinkle in her eyes that refusing her gift would do me absolutely zero good, so I took them, intending to trash them sometime after she got off. For some reason, though, I didn't. And now I find myself writing as we rattle along the roads.

I'm not exactly sure why I'm doing this, keeping this "diary" like that old woman said I should. Probably more for Andy than for myself, I suppose. More than any teacher I had as a kid, it was Andy who taught me the value of the written word. Even if the only mark you leave on the world is a scrawled "I was here" on a wall somewhere, those words are something you can claim as your own, something that marks your passage. Andy taught me that, and now I guess I'll put it to use. Maybe someday, somebody'll want to read about the adventures of this dried-up old con. But mostly, I think, I'm doing this for Andy, to let him know that I was listening. I always listened to him, more than I did anybody else.

I wonder if I'll find him. I remember the name of the town: Zihuatanejo. I haven't a clue how to get there. I imagine that if I keep asking about it, even down in Mexico where they don't speak English, somebody will figure out what I want to do and point me in the right direction. I wonder how he's doing, if he's built a new life for himself, found a new gal. I sort of doubt that last.

You probably wouldn't believe some of the things that go on in a prison. It's...amazing, I guess, what decades of forcible absence from women will do to a man. For all his preaching, Warden Norton was just as bad as the inmates. He used to give the "weakest" of the new inmates to the guards. To "break them in and put the fear of God in them," as he put it. Once the guards had their fill of them, Norton'd put them in with the bull queers, and I shudder to think of what happened to them after that. I guess there's an advantage to being black, after all. For all their love of power trips, the guards drew the line at messing with a black man; didn't want to get their lily white dicks anywhere near my black ass, I suppose. It was the same with the Sisters, that trio of oversized animals down on tier 1-South. They'd fuck anything that moved, except for a black man. I was lucky; the guards slapped me around a bit, but they and everybody else otherwise left me alone.

Andy wasn't so lucky. Even after Boggs had been dispensed with and the Sisters stopped terrorizing him, he still didn't get a reprieve. It was one way the Warden kept him in line, cooking the books on his "community service" projects. Poor Andy ended up in Solitary more often than anybody else -- he never said anything, but it was common knowledge that a session with the guards was often part of the price to get out of the Hole. I remember hearing him afterwards, sometimes, when the guards on patrol were at the other end of the block. I could hear him sobbing quietly, and it broke my heart. Nobody ever saw that side of Andy. They knew him as a quiet man who never stirred up trouble and did his best to educate his fellow inmates. They never saw the Andy that wept in the dark after he was hurt so horribly. I wish there'd been something I could've done for him, but I knew that if I stood up, it'd go worse for him the next time. A man can only stomach so much of that before the very idea of physical intimacy is repulsive. No, it wouldn't surprise me at all if Andy's sworn off men and women both in that regard.

Andy, if you ever get to reading this, I just want you to know how sorry I am about all that. I wish I could've stopped it.

Funny really, I've been around women again for six months. You'd think it would've sparked *something.* I'm old, not dead, after all. Ah well, I suppose after forty years, everything is probably more rusty than I'd like to admit.

Enough of this nonsense. You'd think a man of my age could think with something other than his dick.

Anyhow, it's been a long time since the little old lady got off the bus. There's a woman with her young son sitting in front of me now. They got on a while back, somewhere in Arkansas, I think. We keep heading south, bumping and jostling, and it's getting hotter all the time. Makes me wonder what a Yankee like me is doing this far out of the north woods. Like a polar bear sent to Florida.

The woman's pointing out the window now, showing her son something, and he's pressed his face to the window, trying to see. I strain my eyes to see, too. It's a sign. "Welcome to Texas," it says. Well I'll be damned. I've almost made it.

...I'm on another bus. Took me awhile to get across the border. I didn't realize I needed papers to cross at the official border station, so I apologized to the customs people there and waited until after dark before crossing over in secret about a half mile away. Fortunately, the people who live this close to the border on the Mexican side speak reasonably good English, so I was able to get to a bus station and onto a bus to Zihuatanejo. I didn't dare wait till morning, so I got myself on the next bus that came through. I'm headed southwest, now. I'm dead tired, so I think I'll sleep a bit now that I'm not looking over my shoulder all the time. Near as I can figure from the driver's broken English, it'll take the rest of the night and most of tomorrow to get all the way south to Andy's new home. I need to sleep, but even as tired as I am, I won't sleep that long. I'm not worried about missing my stop.

I hope I can find him. Of course, if I don't, leaving the country is a sufficient enough parole violation to send me straight back to Shawshank. All I have to do is turn myself in to any English-speaking authorities, and they'll send me back. Best of all, I won't have to rob anything or hurt anybody to do it. So either way, this'll work out for the best, I suppose. But I really do want to see Andy again.

Red closed his little blank book (now not so blank anymore) tucked it in his bag, and leaned back in the uncomfortable bus seat. For all the adrenaline pumping through his system in reaction to his apparently successful escape, he fell easily into sleep.

When he awoke, it was light out. More than light. The sun had passed its zenith already. He looked out the window and saw a crudely lettered sign indicating that they were headed towards Ixtapa and Zihuatanejo. The bus was 20 -- miles? kilometers? Red couldn't remember which they used here -- away from Zihuatanejo, itself. The bus bounced and rattled along the barely paved road. Anticipation swirled through his veins. Almost there. He clutched his cheap bag tighter.

Forty minutes later, Red's bus clattered to a halt outside a small building that proclaimed itself the town's bus station with a bright, gaudy sign. The driver turned around in his seat as the aged bus motor wheezed into silence. "Zihuatanejo," he announced proudly to the only passenger left on the bus.

"Gracias, señor," Red said, using two of the only Spanish words he knew, horribly mangled with his New England accent. He stuffed some bills into the little man's hand as he shouldered his way through the narrow doors and off the bus. Standing in the middle of a dusty street, he wondered, again, what the hell he was doing in the middle of this great, wide, free world. But he wouldn't think of that now. No, now he had to find Andy.

There was a building across the street that looked like a store of some sort. If there were people in the area who spoke English, Red guessed he'd find them here, selling their wares to American tourists. He went into the shop and approached the counter, where a beautiful young woman was minding the cash register.

"English?" he asked hopefully.

"Sí, señor, I speak some English."

"Oh, good," Red sighed with relief. "I'm looking for my friend. American, white. Came here about a year ago to open a hotel."

"Americano?" She looked confused. Red's heart sank, but then her face brightened. "Oh, you must mean Señor Boyd."

Red's brow furrowed. Boyd? It wasn't the right person after... Red started. Andy had used *his* name, his middle name? He felt unaccountably warm all over.

The girl was still talking. "...hotel down by the beach. Americanos stay there all the time. You go that way," she pointed west, "far as you can, turn right. Hotel Esperanza, end of street."

Red couldn't suppress his grin. Leave it to Andy to name his new hotel "hope." He'd told Andy, once upon a time, that hope wasn't good for anything on the inside. Red was strangely gratified that Andy had retained enough of what Red had always considered to be foolish idealism for it to shine through immediately on the outside.

With a suddenness that made him flinch slightly, Red remembered the girl, who by then was staring at him curiously. He smiled sheepishly and shrugged -- pay no attention to the crazy old American, that shrug said. "Gracias, señorita," Red said, tipping his cap in the girl's direction. She blushed prettily, and he left the store.

There were still too many trees and buildings in the way for him to see the ocean, but he instinctively knew which way to go. The scent of the salt air and the shrill cries of the gulls drew him like a magnet. He ambled down the street. Ambled, instead of hurried, because now that he was so close, he was strangely nervous. What if Andy didn't want to see him? What if he didn't have a place for Red in his business anymore? What if he'd moved on, and this Boyd fellow was someone else entirely?

Lost in thought, Red almost walked right into another storefront when he reached the end of the street. Blinking dazedly, he turned right and headed down another, thickly tree-lined street, which he followed to the end. There, he found a six-story building, stucco with a red-tiled roof, well kept and nicely landscaped with palm trees and native vegetation. A tasteful sign over its door said 'Hotel Esperanza' in gold-embossed script.

Red stopped and stared. Well, damn. Andy'd done well for himself, it seemed.

He stepped hesitantly into the lobby. It was furnished with tasteful elegance; most of the furniture was made of wicker or rattan, keeping in mind the beachside location of the hotel. The upholstery was bright and cheerful without being garish. Potted palms were all over the room, and ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, moving the air through the spacious lobby. A Hispanic youth tended bar off to one side for some well-dressed American guests. Red stopped again and looked around.

"Señor?" a woman's voice asked from behind him.

He turned around to face a middle-aged Mexican lady who stood behind the front desk. Red fished in his memory for an appropriate greeting. "Buenos días," he said, wincing as he muddled the pronunciation.

The woman smiled in understanding. "You want a room, sir?" she asked in uncertain English.

"Uh, not yet, thank you, señora. I wonder if I can speak to An... to señor Boyd?"

"Sí. Señor Boyd is down by the water, working on his new boat."

"Gracias."

The woman gestured towards an open door that spilled bright sunlight into the cool lobby. Case in his hand and heart in his throat, Red stepped outside.

Bright. It was very bright outside, and Red squinted. The glare from the white sands was almost blinding. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the light, and he looked up. And blinked. And smiled. The Pacific was every bit as blue as it had been in his dreams. A little ways down the beach, an old fishing boat lay heavily on the sand like a beached whale. There was an indistinct figure perched high up on the hull, scraping away at old varnish and paint.

Andy.

Red started down the beach, eager to see him again.

He halted for only a moment when that figure atop the boat finally resolved itself into the familiar shape of his friend. He'd somehow expected to see Andy in a banker's suit, successful hotelier that he apparently was, but the younger man was dressed in worn cutoffs and a shirt with the sleeves torn out. He was tanned dark from the sun and was obviously lean and healthy. Andy wore his freedom well, and it made Red's heart glad to see it. Red started walking again, faster this time, battered case and cap and jacket falling to the sand, forgotten, in his haste.

Clearly having spotted him, Andy dropped his tools, jumped off the boat, and ran to cover the rest of the distance between them, grinning like a loon. He grabbed the older man in a bear hug. "Red!"

Red wrapped his arms around his friend and hugged him hard. "Andy Dufresne. As I live and breathe," he said hoarsely. "Damn, kid, it's good to see you again."

A laugh that was just a touch high and hysterical burst from Andy's lips. "God, Red, I was so sure they'd deny you parole. They never wanted to let you out before. I didn't expect to see you for another ten years or more. I'm so glad I was wrong." His arms tightened fit to crack Red's ribs. "Ellis Boyd Redding, you sure are a sight for sore eyes."

Red grunted. "Easy there, kid, I'm not going anywhere."

Andy stiffened, then dropped his arms helplessly. "Sorry. And I'm hardly a kid anymore, you know. I'm almost 45."

Red grinned. "You were a kid when you came to Shawshank. Guess I'll always think of you that way. I'll try to remember not to say it out loud, if that'll make you feel better."

Andy snorted and pulled back, still smiling.

Red blinked and shook his head slightly. Yes, the Pacific was as blue as it'd been in his dreams, but Andy's eyes were bluer.

He shook his head again, then caught Andy looking at him uncertainly.

Red grinned again and pulled his friend back into a hug, wanting to reassure him and wipe the uncertainty from his face. "Man alive, Andy, you gave us all quite a turn, you know that?"

Andy sighed with relief and relaxed into Red's embrace. "You'll have to tell me how things went at morning roll after I left," he murmured.

Red chuckled. "You got time for a story? It's a real lulu."

Andy smiled against Red's neck. "I have all the time in the world." He pulled back. "You want to head back into the hotel, or talk out here?"

Red looked out over the ocean. "I think I'd like to stay out here for a bit, if that's alright." He glanced back at Andy and saw the understanding in his eyes.

"Have a seat then," he invited, and plopped down to the sand.

Red sat down more slowly, his aging joints informing him that there would be no plopping for him.

Andy laughed. "Take your shoes off, Red. A sandy beach is no place for wingtips."

Red grinned sheepishly and tugged off his shoes and socks. He stretched out his legs and wriggled his dark toes contentedly in the warm sun as he leaned back against the hull of the boat, only vaguely taking notice that his shoulder settled comfortably against Andy's.

"They dragged me into your cell after they locked all the others down. Norton was in there, yelling his head off. Thought he'd have a stroke, he was so mad. Accused you, me, the guards, everybody of being in on a conspiracy."

Andy's brow furrowed. "What conspiracy?"

Red shrugged. "Damned if I know," he drawled. "He started throwing your rocks at me and the guards, then threw one at your picture of Raquel. 'Course, the rock went clean through. Well, the Warden tore poor Raquel off the wall, and, Andy, I've never seen a man's eyes get so big."

Andy laughed.

"Well, they put me back in my cell right quick after that, 'Twas obvious by the look on my face that I was just as surprised as everybody else. They had troopers all over the place all day. Damn near took the place apart looking for you. I heard all they found of you was a bar of soap, your prison uniform, and that old rock hammer I smuggled in there for you. They're still talking about you." Red chuckled at the memories.

"Guess I really pulled one over on everybody, huh, Red?" Andy asked, still laughing, himself.

Then Red sobered suddenly. "Damn it, Andy, you had us scared the night before you flew the coop. Talking to me about bad luck, getting busy dying, and then asking Heywood for six feet of rope... God Almighty, Andy, I was terrified you'd gone and decided to off yourself right there in your cell." His voice turned thick with emotion. "I don't think I've ever waited longer for the sun to rise, sitting there, not knowing if you were dangling from the ceiling. When you didn't come out for morning roll..." Red sputtered to a halt, voice choked, unable to continue. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it wasn't enough to stop the silent tears that escaped and slipped down his face.

Andy lurched to his knees and pulled Red up into his arms. "God, Red, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I sure as hell didn't mean to make you worry. I didn't put the whole thing with the rope together. I should've known better, especially after Brooks."

Red shivered, striving to regain his composure, as he felt Andy's hand running over his scratchy, close-cropped curls.

"But you made it, Red! I was afraid you wouldn't go to the hayfield, or that you wouldn't remember the name of the town, or that they'd never let you out at all. I didn't dare write the name of the town in that letter, of course. I'm so glad to see you! How did you manage it?"

Red leaned back, his smile a bit shaky and his eyes a bit watery, but more or less in control of himself. "Bought a bus ticket to Fort Hancock, and rode the whole way down looking over my shoulder," he quipped. He glared mock-accusingly at Andy. "You didn't tell me I'd need papers at the border, though. I had to sneak across after dark."

Andy grinned, presumably at the mental image of his old friend sneaking past the border guards at night. "Say, whatever happened to Hadley and Norton and the rest?"

"Well, Andy, those books you sent to the Portland Daily Bugle caused an almighty shake-up at the prison. They led away half the senior guards in handcuffs, you know. They went for the Warden, but he had some .38 caliber insurance. Ventilated his brain before the state troopers got in there."

Andy nodded soberly. "I didn't figure he'd go quietly. I'm sorry about his wife, though. I certainly didn't mean to see her hurt."

Red stared at the floor for a moment, fishing for a way to change the subject. When he found one, he seized it with both hands. "Oh, and what's with this 'señor Boyd' thing, huh?"

Andy grinned and ducked his head, looking abashed. "Well, I couldn't very well use my own name, and Norton's 'Randall Stevens' was out, because they'd have been looking for him, too. But I had to be sure that it was something you'd recognize if you heard it, so you'd know it was me. I figured your middle name would catch your attention."

"Sure did. My jaw about hit the floor when that pretty young thing in the store said I'd need to find señor Boyd."

Andy chuckled again. "So, you want to see this hotel of mine?"

"I'd like that. Though I see you're still working on that fishing boat you wanted."

"This? This is a boat for me. Something I can do with my own hands. It will be *my* boat. The hotel's boat is moored further down the beach there." He gestured offhandedly down the sand.

Red turned to look and goggled. Moored placidly at the dock was a large, gleaming, white yacht.

"For fishing and harbor cruises," Andy said proudly. "I named her Liberty."

Red turned wide eyes toward his friend and then back to the boat. "You never cease to amaze me, Andy. It took you ten years, but you built the best prison library in New England, and that was from the decidedly disadvantaged position of being an inmate. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you managed to open a posh hotel with its own floating palace inside of a year once you got out. Damn, kid, you're a wonder." He grinned.

Andy flushed. "American money is worth a lot down here," he said dismissively. "Warden Norton was a rich man before Randall Stevens closed out his accounts. I was able to afford both the hotel and the boat, fixed both of them up to cater to the upper class American tourists, and I've been doing well ever since."

Red cast a slightly uncertain glance at his friend. "You still have a job for an old crook who knows how to get things?"

Andy smiled. "Absolutely, Red. Absolutely. I need a manager, and I think you're just the man for the job."

Red blinked. "Manager? Me? What the hell are you smokin', kid?"

Andy snorted. "Perfect job for you. Don't worry. I'll show you how it's done. But we can take care of that later. I'd like to show you the building."

Red followed him back into the lobby, pleasantly dim and cool after the fierce brightness and heat of the beach.

"Rosa!" Andy called. The middle-aged woman at the desk looked up. "This is Red. Uh... Redmond Michaels. He's a good friend of mine, and he's come to help me run the place. Red, this is Rosa Juarez. She's the one who's *really* in charge here."

The woman ducked her head and blushed. "You tease me again, señor. Pleased to meet you, señor Michaels."

Remembering his manners and recovering from his surprise at suddenly receiving a new name, Red bowed politely over her hand. "The pleasure is all mine, señora Juarez."

"Señor, if I am going to be working for you, too, you must call me Rosa," she said with a friendly smile.

Red blinked again. Somebody working for *him?*

"C'mon, Red! Let me show you the guest rooms." Andy was as excited as a kid on Christmas morning, and he fairly dragged Red off towards the single elevator. The door slid open with a muffled sigh, and Red was herded unceremoniously inside. The door slid shut with a soft ding.

"Redmond Michaels?"

Andy grinned. "You're a fugitive, Red. You can't use your real name, not even here. 'Redmond' lets you keep the nickname you're used to, and 'Michaels,' well..." Andy trailed off and flushed unaccountably. "Michael is my middle name. I borrowed yours; figured I'd return the favor and lend you mine."

A smile grew slowly on Red's face. "Generous of you, Andy. I think I like it."

The elevator slowed to a gentle stop on the fifth floor. Andy seized Red's hand again. "I'll show you one of the rooms on the way up, so you can get an idea of the kind of accommodations we offer. I have the penthouse to myself, and there's more than enough room for you to stay up there, too. I've got plenty of spare rooms, and we could share the kitchen space," Andy explained. He keyed into one of the rooms, throwing open the door to show Red the tastefully decorated, comfortable interior.

"Very nice, Andy. You do all this yourself?"

Andy shook his head. "Rosa helped with the decorating. She sort of took me in and mother-henned me when I first got here. She takes care of most of the details."

"You sure I won't be stepping on her toes if you make me 'manager?'"

"No, you won't. Rosa's been my manager, but what she really wants to do is open a full-service restaurant. She's an *amazing* cook, and she's the reason why I've gained a little weight since I got out. We have the facilities for a sit-down dining room here, but we haven't had the necessary personnel. This'll work out just fine."

Red smiled as Andy dragged him down the hall to a door marked "private." He opened the door to reveal a narrow staircase that wound upwards. The stairway opened into a spacious, airy suite of rooms. The bulk of the suite was a common great room with seating, dining, and kitchen areas all in one large, liberally-windowed space. A tremendously cluttered desk sat in one corner. There were three doors along one wall, standing ajar to reveal two large, simply furnished bedrooms with a bath between them.

"Yours is the one on the left, Red," Andy said excitedly. "I made sure there was space for you when I renovated the place."

Red stared at his friend, completely speechless and unused to having anyone look out for his welfare and comfort like this.

Andy's face fell. "You don't like it? I should've waited, asked you what you wanted, if you even wanted to stay here with me..."

His babbling was cut off by Red grabbing his shoulders and giving him a little shake.

"For me, Andy?" he asked, his voice shaky with disbelief, a bewildered half-smile on his face.

"Well, yeah," Andy said, confused.

"Nobody's ever done anything like this for me. I can't believe... Can I see it?"

Andy grinned. "Sure! Go on in, make yourself at home."

Red smiled slightly again, still looking at Andy like he couldn't quite believe it. This Andy was new to him. The Andy Dufresne who'd come to Shawshank had been quiet, withdrawn, heart-breakingly young, and frightfully earnest. It was, no doubt, the result of his horrible experiences before he came to the Stir. Red thought it would've made even the most talkative guy turn silent and surly. His experiences with the Sisters and the guards had only made it worse. By the time he took his leave of the Maine State prison system, Andy spoke only in murmured, muted tones, and he had a terrible, silent intensity about him. This Andy, though, this Andy who'd known hope and freedom for a year, was relaxed and happy. It warmed Red's heart to see that Shawshank had not broken him.

With a final incredulous half-smile, Red stepped through the door to his new room. He had to admit he liked the sound of that. It wasn't his cell, or his rented space, but *his room.* He looked around. Andy had outdone himself. The whole room was decorated in shades of blue, and was comfortably furnished with a large bed, chest of drawers, armchair, and writing desk. Immediately to Red's left was what appeared to be a small bathroom and a closet.

There was an envelope lying atop the dresser with his name written on it in Andy's neat script. There was a faint film of dust over it, as though it had been waiting for him for some time. He dropped his jacket and case on the bed and crossed the room to the chest of drawers. He picked up the envelope, took out the letter inside, and began to read.

Dear Red,

I suppose you are wondering why I wrote you a letter since you are presumably here in my hotel with me. I've been out of Shawshank for about 5 months now. I've just finished furnishing the place, and we'll be open for business in about a week. I'm just so full of excitement and hope that I wanted to capture it in a message for you. If the Parole Board behaves as I expect they will, I won't get to see you for some years yet; not for a decade or more. By then, I should be well established, and this hotel business will be old hat.

But for now, everything is brand new. I'm feeling brave. So on this day of new beginnings, I'm going to say a few things that I didn't tell you before I left. Did you know, Red, that of everyone I met while I was at Shawshank, you're the only one I ever respected? I know that you were in there for a reason - you told me as much. Despite that, though, you are a good man. You are honest and fair in your dealings, and in the nineteen years I was in that horrible place, I never heard you say an unkind word to anyone, unless they hurt you or one of your friends. I didn't expect to see that in prison. When I came to Shawshank, I didn't have much faith in humanity left. You restored it, you know.

Nineteen years is a long time for an innocent man to sit in prison for someone else's crime. You'd think I could've got out of there, never looked back, and been a happy man. I'm not, though; not completely. I have one regret, and it was almost enough to make me stay there. I couldn't bring you with me. Nineteen years of living just through a couple of walls from you, and I almost couldn't make myself live without you. Forgive me, Red. Please, please forgive me for choosing freedom over friendship. I guess maybe it was a coward's way out, because if I'd stayed, I would've been forced to take a hard look at the sort of friendship that makes a man throw away his chance at freedom. I'm so sorry, Red. I'm sorry I ran from the best friend I've ever had because I was afraid of what it would mean if I stayed.

So, I've made this room just for you. However long it takes you to get here, it will be your space, and none other's. I've made it a blue room, because I remember you used to dream about the Pacific Ocean, and in your dreams, it was brilliant blue. When you come here, I want you to remember your dreams, and I want to watch them come true. I want to *help* them come true. I hope neither I nor the Pacific have disappointed you thus far. I'm prepared to wait a long time for you. Forever, if I have to. I finally figured it out, Red. I finally figured out that friendship of the kind I have with you is more important than anything. If wishes could make it so, the Parole Board will let you out next year, because I will be wishing for that with all my might. I miss you, Red. Please, come as soon as you can. I don't want to live without my friend. I don't want to live without you.

Yours,
Andy

Red wondered if Andy's pen had given him trouble towards the end of the letter. His writing was blurry, difficult to read. Oh, no it wasn't. The writing was fine. It was the moisture that had begun to gather in Red's eyes that was the problem. He blinked back the tears hurriedly and turned around.

Andy was still standing in the doorway, fidgeting like an impatient kid and blushing ten shades of magenta. Red's dark eyes dropped to the letter and then focused back on his friend.

"Andy," he said hesitantly in a voice that wasn't entirely steady. "Do you mean this?"

Andy studied his sandals intently. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, Red." He took a deep breath and spoke again. "I meant it the day I wrote it, and I still mean it now."

Red's face reflected amazed disbelief. "You would've given up your freedom? For me?"

Andy paused, then nodded.

Red crossed the room and gripped Andy's shoulder. "No, Andy. No. I'd have shoved you out through that tunnel myself, if I had known you were going to fly the coop. Remember? Some birds aren't meant to be caged," he said earnestly. "If ever a bird deserved the open sky, it was you. I did a stupid thing when I was a very young man, and it got me put away for life. I met a lot of people in the Stir, most of them copies of each other in one way or another. I *never* met anyone like you. I've never known a man as strong, as *good,* as you. I admired the hell out of you while we were in Shawshank, and I admire you even more, now that I see you so alive and free."

Red squeezed Andy's shoulder, giving him a little shake. "Don't you dare regret leaving without me, Andy. I can't even begin to tell you how happy it makes me to see you out here, in this business you've built for yourself. If you'd stayed, you would have lost everything that makes you the man you are. I'm very lucky to be able to join you here."

Red's eyes grew distant for a moment. "You see that world out there, Andy? It scares the hell out of me. I haven't been a part of it for almost longer than I can remember. I tried to join up with it again, but it just didn't take. For weeks, now, all I've thought about was how to get myself back to Shawshank."

Andy's eyes turned sad. "Oh, Red," he murmured.

Red shook his head. "It's no good sailing the ocean if you haven't got an anchor to ground you when you need it." He paused and looked around at the calm Pacific blues and white of his room. "The Pacific is every bit as blue as I dreamed, Andy, but it's no good without an anchor, a guide. *You* are my anchor."

Andy blinked, speechless.

Red chuckled quietly to himself. "Now *that* has got to sound strange. I've been on this earth nearly fifteen years longer than you, and I've looked to you almost since the day I realized you were more than a wet-behind-the-ears kid." Red glanced askance at his bewildered companion. "Don't go telling anyone that, mind. They'll think I've gone soft."

That startled a smile out of the younger man.

Red cocked his head and regarded Andy steadily. "You can have the Pacific. I'm just happy to be with my friend, my anchor, again."

Andy swallowed hard, his eyes gone suspiciously bright. "God, Red, I never knew," he said hoarsely. "Hell, I thought you were just putting up with the new guy, the bookworm, because you had a good heart. I can't even begin to tell you how much your friendship means to me."

A shy little half-smile ghosted across Andy's face, and he stepped closer to Red, wrapping his arms around the other's shoulders.

Red was surprised, at first, but was quick to return his friend's embrace. He sighed deeply and shut his eyes. He hadn't known an affectionate touch of any kind for forty years. Leave it to Andy to recognize just what he needed.

They stood there, just two men taking solace in each other from the world, not caring in the slightest about the passage of time. When Andy pulled back, he set his jaw like a man prepared to dive headfirst out onto a limb and brushed a fleeting, hesitant kiss over Red's cheek.

Red blinked and drew away, eyeing the other man in nervous confusion. "Andy...," he began, and winced when he heard the muddled mix of reproach and uncertainty in his voice.

Andy hurriedly laid a hand against his friend's lips, obviously not wanting to hear any more. "I'm sorry, Red. I should've asked permission first. Just...forget it. Please."

Red shook his head and dislodged Andy's pale, shaking hand. "You misunderstand me, Andy. It's not the kiss that worried me. I...," Red floundered to a halt. He tried again, cursing himself for not being able to look Andy in the eye as he did so. "I know what happened to you in Shawshank. I just... I want you to know that you *do not* have to offer that to me." Red reached out and tilted Andy's flaming face up to meet his eyes. "You are my friend. Free of charge," he said earnestly.

Andy nodded. "I know, Red. You must think me quite mad, knowing what the guards and some of the other inmates did." He trailed off and sighed. "I'm 45 years old, and the only memories I have of love or physical closeness are of the prison, and my wife dying in another man's bed. They aren't memories, Red, they're *nightmares.*"

His gaze dropped to his toes again. "Of everyone on this Earth, I trust you. I guess I thought maybe you wouldn't mind so much. I trust you to maybe... give me something to remember that doesn't make me wake up screaming." He raised an imploring blue gaze to Red's face. "Maybe I can teach you a little bit about freedom. I trust you to teach me about love," he finished in a rush.

Red's breath hitched. Just like that, forty years without women caught up with him in a hell of a hurry. One look at the vulnerability, desperate hope, and shy affection in Andy's eyes, and his body ran right away from him.

Red cast a glance at his midsection. When he raised his eyes again, Andy was looking at him, puzzled. Red ducked his head, abashed. "Damn, Andy! Nothing, I mean *nothing* for the last twenty years. Not even being out and seeing all those pretty young things in their new, tight clothes did *anything* for me. I thought I was *broken* after all that time in the Stir. And now, just a few words from you..." Red stumbled to a halt.

He glared down at his obviously tented trousers. "This is embarrassing!" he blustered.

Andy followed his gaze and blushed furiously. Then he started laughing -- happy, delighted, joyous laughter. It made Red's heart sing to hear it. He couldn't help the goofy grin that spread its lopsided way across his face.

Still laughing, Andy grabbed Red's hand and pulled him farther into the room, shutting the door firmly behind them.

It's late in the afternoon. I've been lying awake for awhile now, and I hope writing some of this down will make my head quiet enough to sleep. Lord knows I'm wrung out enough to sleep for a week. The reason I'm so wrung out is snoring in the bed behind me. Dead to the world.

Andy sleeps like a child in a lot of ways. Twenty years of sleeping in a prison bunk didn't cure him of the unconscious ability to take up the whole bed. He sleeps like a log. Forty years in Shawshank made me jumpy. I guess having his 1-bunk cell didn't force him to be able to wake up in a hurry.

He looks so peaceful. I watched him for almost an hour before I finally got up to write this. Turning on the small lamp on my new writing desk didn't even make him twitch. I hope he's having happy dreams. I damn sure am going to have happy dreams, if I can ever get to sleep.

How do you like that? Here I am, almost 60 years old, and I'm raring to go again like a teenager. As if the first two times weren't enough.

I nearly disgraced myself after Andy shut the door behind us. He kissed me like I have *never* been kissed before, and I'm surprised I didn't go off right then. I'd been feeling a bit awkward before that; I had no idea what to do with another man, after all.

All it took was one kiss, and I was eager to try whatever Andy had in mind.

He had a lot in mind. I got more education in the space of those first few hours than I ever had in a school. Andy didn't even blink twice before he knocked me onto the bed, dispensed with my trousers, and did things to me with his mouth that I hadn't ever imagined. He smiled afterwards, as I laid there trying to catch my breath and worrying that I'd shouted the house down. I'll never forget what he said then.

He said that it was the first time he'd ever *wanted* to do that for anyone, and he *thanked* me. Thanked me! Thanked me for lying there and wondering if my bones would ever reassemble.

Unbelievable.

Fortunately, I kept my head enough to remember a little of what he did. Andy was very understanding, seeing as I'd never tried anything like that before. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I did want to return the favor. Common courtesy, after all. I surely didn't expect to enjoy it as much as I did. I've never been more pleased with myself than I was when Andy came apart in my arms, and it was *me* that did it.

We laughed, afterwards. Laughed like a couple of kids who'd been naughty in the backseat of a car. Seeing him so happy was almost better than hearing him shout my name, lost in pleasure.

I asked him if that was a good enough memory, and he tackled me right back onto the bed. He wasn't finished, after all.

It shocked me, I guess, how good it felt to hold him. I thought it would be strange, holding a man, but Andy feels like he belongs in my arms. I wonder why I didn't think of it before. I wonder why it never occurred to me to hug Andy on the sly while we were both in prison. Well, I guess maybe it *wouldn't* have been such a good idea to do that. Still, I haven't hugged anyone in over forty years, and it surprises me, how much I like it, how much I missed it.

We held each other for awhile after that, and took turns learning each others' bodies. Never have I felt such delight from touching and being touched. And best of all, he trusted me. He trusted somebody who had no idea how to love another man and who was forty years out of practice with women, but that didn't matter to him.

You know, I've never been more honored or humbled than when he turned and offered himself to me. He trusted me even with that which prison had ripped from him without his consent. Maybe that's why he did it, to reclaim his power of choice.

Not that it wasn't enjoyable, mind. I imagine that figured large in his motivations, too. I've never known such agonizing, devastating pleasure. It was intense enough to destroy a man, to remake him in ways too wonderful to imagine. It's clear to me now, why he was patient through all my fumbling and questions, even the awkward search for Andy's bottle of cooking oil after I figured out what the hell Crisco had to do with what we were doing. It was worth it.

I wonder, a little, if Andy knew from experience how good it would be, or if he just hoped. After everything he experienced at Shawshank, I think it was probably hope. If Andy could get all the way to the end of that, gasping and moaning and determined that we should be as close to one another as physically possible, simply on the hope that it wouldn't be as bad as what had come before...

Maybe there's more to that hope thing that I've given it credit for. I don't know. Lord, there's so *much* I don't know. I don't know anything about how the world works these days. I don't know how to get things here on the outside. Never mind the outside; I don't have a clue how to get things in Mexico. I don't know how to be a hotel manager. I don't know how to speak Spanish. I don't know the first thing about restoring old boats, though I imagine Andy will fix that in a hurry.

Funny thing, though, that doesn't seem to bother me as much, now. I wonder why that is. No, on the other hand, I guess I know why that is.

One thing I *do* know, something 19 years and these last few hours have taught me, is that Andy Dufresne fills in all my empty spaces.

Knowing that, the rest just doesn't seem to matter much.

The sun is beginning to set now. I can see the brilliant colors start to streak across the sky from the window of my room. Andy hasn't moved, and he's still snoring, so I imagine he'll be asleep for awhile. Come to think of it, I'm starting to feel a bit tired, myself. It's been a hell of a day.

For the first time since they let me out, I'm glad to be a free man.

I think I'll go back to Andy now. I'll lie with my friend, and hold him, and just *know* for awhile.

Fin.